


Don't Be Afraid (We're Going Home)

by full_moon_pills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Caring Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Comforting Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Depressed Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homeless Dean Winchester, Homophobic John Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/full_moon_pills/pseuds/full_moon_pills
Summary: Dad’s just disowned him for fucking a guy, Sammy’s at Stanford, and Dean has nowhere to go. And then he finds New Hope Shelter, a youth homeless shelter run by Castiel Novak, the most intriguing guy Dean’s ever met, and the first person who seems to genuinely care about him.When he enters New Hope, however, he has to struggle with his repressed trauma, abuse, and depression, and with the help of Cas and his new family, learn to build a future for himself with the people he loves.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 44
Kudos: 241





	1. i wanna fall inside your ghost

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all!
> 
> this is my first multi-chap destiel fic (and a slow burn at that) so the plot might be a little wonky until I learn how to manage it, but I'm very excited to work on this! please keep me accountable - comments work ;)
> 
> as always, Mind The Trigger Warnings. there is rape/non-con in this chapter (the assault is explicit, but the actual rape is not) and john winchester abuses dean in this chapter. there is homophobic language used. there is violence. Graphic violence. please take care!!
> 
> and yes, I took the title from taxi cab by twenty øne pilots.
> 
> enjoy :)

Dean sets down the cue stick triumphantly, unable to stop a ragged grin from climbing up the side of his face. He gets a glower from the three men he scammed - but hey, it isn't scamming if he's rightly earned it, is it? He played a good game; he always did. He pulls out his wallet and opens it wide before shuffling the mens’ bills and tucking them securely inside.

One of the men, older, with a scraggly grey beard, skin taunt over high cheekbones, snarls, and his lip jerks upward. “Payback’s a bitch, Dean-o.” 

His shoulders tense at the use of his name, but he’s been here before, supposes news travels fast. “Counting on it, buddy,” Dean tells him, and smirks immediately, instinctively.

He returns to his seat at the bar, not looking back at the guys clustered around the pool table. He’s earned his money, and he knows he should get back to Dad before the old man comes looking for him. With Dad being on edge these days, the brunt of his anger usually falling to Dean, he knows that returning late bears consequences he doesn’t want to face. But he has some time, so he calls the bartender and asks for a shot of their best vodka.

The bar of choice tonight is a seedy one, as the ones he frequents usually are, but crowded enough at one a.m. that he feels safe. After all, Dean’s grown up in these - dive bars, stingy motels, places that reek of bitter vodka and burnt-out cigarettes and sex.

He accepts his drink but turns it between his fingers without taking it.

It’s been weeks. Months, if he’s generous. Dad’s still bitter, swollen full with rage that tastes like the burnt coffee at the bottom of a styrofoam cup. But Dean, he’s just empty. Doesn’t have much of anything left to feel.

He’s stopped thinking about calling. Calling someone - 

Sammy, maybe.

Tipping the glass back, he relishes the burn of alcohol down his throat before he slams it back onto the table and shakes his head.

No, he’s good here with Dad. Doing what he was meant to do all along, doing his job. The times that neither one of them can pick up work at the local mechanic’s or doing odd jobs - house painting, manual jobs, the kind of exchanges you make when you only have yourself, your hands and your labor, to trade for survival - they cheat at pool, or scam someone out of their money, or pack up the Impala and keep moving.

No wonder Sammy wanted out. Kid was always meant for bigger things, and Dean knew that, and so did Dad. Neither of them could keep Sam here if they wanted; not even if they had guns and a pair of handcuffs. His brother would never be meant for this kind of life.

Dean, on the other hand. His only usefulness - worthiness - comes from this: staying beside his old man, following him, obeying his orders, taking the punishments with grace. It’s a form of apology, he supposes, because after all these years he’d still the one who ruined everything Dad ever loved in the world - besides Sam. For all the _you go out that door, don’t ever come back, you hear me?_ s, Dad has to have loved him if he tried so hard to keep him.

Dean’s not like that, and he knows. He spends everything trying to make himself unexpendable. As if he does something of value, then Dad’ll hold him close.

So he made sure not to ruin the only other thing Dad loved. Made it his one duty. _Keep Sammy safe at all costs._ It was the Winchester rule; it’s who he is.

Who is he now that Sammy’s left him?

“Hey, handsome.” Dean flinches as a man swoops into his peripheral, and he smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. You looked lonely - I was hoping I could buy you a drink.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says easily, and scans the man - he looks friendly, but more than that, _hot_. Warm brown eyes dipping into a semi-sultry gaze, broad shoulders, plump lips. The hands that tap the table nonchalantly are broad, look soft-skinned and strong. Yeah, he can go for that. “I’d go for a drink.” 

The man smiles and orders them. “So, should I ask for a name?”

“Depends on what you want me to scream.” It slips out of Dean’s mouth faster than he can catch it and for a moment he thinks he’s overestimated, didn’t read the man correctly, he wasn’t - but then he gets another grin, this one devilish, eyes a shade darker.

“Jonathan.”

They don’t get as far as screaming by the time Jonathan is grinding Dean into the wall out back the back, fingers straining to catch all the heat between them, their mouths slick and hot, Dean pushing back, wanting to fill himself, fill that emptiness, chanting, _oh fuck, fuck, fuck yes_ \- 

Eyes opening over Jonathan’s shoulder, he sees him before he can pull away. John striding into the alleyway, shadows moving to shape the echos of his footsteps, and they ring in Dean’s ears like Church bells. And then he’s moving before the fact settles in his mind as real, pleading, “You have to go - go, go, leave - please just-”

Jonathan pulls away, eyebrows furrowing into a face Dean can’t look at, says, “What’s wrong?” and all Dean can think about how good of a partner he’ll be to the next guy who he comes across, a guy that actually deserves someone who cares, who thinks that this, this is _okay_ \- “Please just go,” he gasps out.

His father is frozen.

Jonathan stumbles away, and he yanks up his jeans, pulls down his shirt, wipes his mouth as if he can wipe off the evidence of his mutiny, hands shaking, shoulders quivering with each inhale.

Dad stalks closer. Fear spreads up Dean’s spine, paralyzing him in place, constricting his lungs, so he focuses on staring just south of his father’s eyes. If he keeps his gaze there then nothing bad can happen. Nothing bad can happen. Nothing bad.

A swing comes from the left, and Dean winces as he lets it finds his mark. Another, from the right. Knee in the stomach; he doubles over, wheezing, and then there are strong hand crushing his neck back into the wall, angling him up, and he _can’t breathe_.

“What the fuck, Dean? This is what you get up to when I’m not out? _This_? _Pimp_ ing yourself to men?”

The raw fury, disappointment, hurts more than anything physical ever could. “No,” Dean says. “No, I don’t, I promise-”

“Are you sure? Because that isn’t _what it fucking looks like!”_

Dad slams him back, twice, and his head hits the brick with a splitting _crack_ , and he thinks he might be dying - if only he could _breathe_ \- 

“Is that what you want to be? A _fag_?” 

The hand is jerked back suddenly, and Dean buckles to his knees.

“You’re betraying this family, Dean, betraying your mother’s memory! Betraying God! You and your disgusting freak show. Look at what you are! _Look_!” Another kick is aimed at Dean’s stomach, and he collapses under his father’s foot, shuddering uncontrollably. His eyes ache. “You are not my son.”

Dean raises his head, ground tilting towards his face, nails digging into gravel to steady himself. A choking wetness gurgles in his throat, and he lurches forward painfully, hot, clumping wetness hacked up from ripped inside. He spits out blood, feels it trickle over his lip and down his chin, and raises bleary eyes to his father.

Dad nods, satisfied, but Dean can see the glint of derision in the dark eyes. He twists his head back, stutters, “Please, Dad, D-Dad, don’t…”

John lets out the huff of a laugh, dry and angry. “I’m going to leave you right here,” he growls. “And don’t you come crawling back.”

“No, Dad, _no_ -” 

“You hear that, Dean? That’s a fucking _order_.”

Dean falls still. Dad stares at him for a few more moments, then turns and walks away, his boots clicking against dirty cement. The sound reverberates, a mantra, _a fag look at what you are don’t you come crawling back that’s a fucking order_ , and Dean flattens himself to the ground, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to become nothing.

He doesn’t know how time passes. The black on the other side of his eyelids dims lower, void of light, and he lays there until he can’t feel himself, pain dulling into coils of numbness.

_Please, please, please,_ he prays, and he doesn’t know what he’s praying for, who he’s praying to; the fantasy of someone watching over him died years ago.

“Hey, look at pretty boy over there!”

Dean tenses in reaction to the voice. He knows it belongs to one of the men he cheated earlier this evening, who’re probably here to mug him. Which is fine, really, he can deal with being mugged, he’s had worse opponents. But he’s so goddamn tired of it all.

He’s so tired, he’s so fucking _tired_ , he just wants a _break_ \- 

“This’ll teach you not to cheat us, don’t you think?” 

The weight of a body presses into the small of his back, and dimly he realizes he’s being straddled, and he bucks, kicking out viciously, voice rising: “What the hell, man? Get off!”

“No, I don’t think I should,” the man on top of him croons, and Dean distantly realizes it’s the one with the cheekbones. _Payback_. No, no, not this sort of payback. It can’t be. He jerks around, attempting to kick up and hit the man, but there are other hands on his ankles, wrists, twisting him back, and the realization that there are _more_ of them pushes the panic pounding in his chest. “You need to be tamed, don’t you, Dean-o? Need someone to show you your place?”

A nail is traced up his cheek, blistering against the fresh cuts, pressing into the weak flesh of newly formed bruises; a delicate touch, tracing down the column of throat, and Dean flings his head to the side, but he’s not fast enough, and Cheekbones snatches his finger away. It sends a sickening tendril of something horribly warm coursing through his body. He feels sick. Wants to throw up, at the thought of what they want to take from him.

Cheekbones lowers an open mouth to the bare skin of his spine - and when was his jacket taken away? His tongue feels slimy, like a fish carcass, and Dean struggles to breathe through the fetid stink of rotting gums. The man bites down harshly, and Dean flinches, pain exploding into silver streaks in front of his eyes, feels the blood seep from the wound, and that can’t be sanitary, no, he knows that isn’t hygienic. Sam used to tell him that pressing his lips to his own paper cuts wasn’t sterile or some bullshit about how blood has germs, so surely that couldn’t have been either.

And he’s been _marked_. “Doesn’t even say no anymore, look at that,” is crooned into his neck. “Can’t even deny that he likes it.” A hand reaches down to squeeze him between the legs and Dean sobs into the ground.

His body is roiling, convulsing, revolted, and he’s so damn scared. So damn scared. Sammy must be curled into a bed by now, probably with a book, or maybe a one of those law textbooks - kid always did like to read before he went to sleep. He holds onto that image. Can’t feel his hands anymore. Cheek being pressed into gravel, wet and hurting. This _hurts_.

Sammy. Sam. He’s going to go home to Sam.

He can hear his belt buckle being undone. Someone is moaning into his ear, panting. _“Ask for it.”_

His hair is gripped, yanked back painfully tight, and he can feel cool metal being pressed into the line of his throat. “Ask for it,” Cheekbones snarls.

And if his body turns up in a few weeks, a few months? Whenever Sam tries to call him and doesn’t reach a number, finds out his big brother, the one who was supposed to protect him, is dead? Dean won’t be able to keep anyone - anything - from laying a hand on Sammy when he’s gone. And if Dad follows Sam to Stanford, forces him into Dean’s place, doles out punches and jibes on a daily basis - no, Dean can’t let that happen. He can’t even think about letting himself die in this dingy alley, letting people see the remains of him like this - a used-up, torn-down whore.

So he asks for it.

>

Hand shaking so hard he can barely keep a firm grasp on his cell phone, Dean presses his second emergency contact. His first being Dad, but he doesn’t really want his thoughts to stray there, so he focuses on waiting for Sam.

No one picks up. He calls again, lets it ring out. No one is picking up. His finger nearly misses the button when he presses again. Dean barely registers that he’s panicking, only that he’s calling and no one is picking up, why isn’t his brother picking up?

Dad’s probably told him what a disgusting freak Dean is, what unnatural things Dean’s been up to, how abhorrent his big brother is, how all along he was this _thing_ \- oh God, Sammy hates him, _Sammy hates him_ \- and what if he knew about _this_? About Dean being held down like a bitch and - 

He can’t know. No one can know.

And if Sam did pick up, he would know. Would be able to read that goddamn repulsiveness in Dean’s voice, be able to pick it out and know exactly, exactly what happened and Dean - he can’t.

Dean can’t. He just - he can’t.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but when he starts walking, it doesn’t seem like he can stop. Feet move of their own accord, following the line of the sidewalk. At several intervals, he has to stop and wait for the world to stop swinging him like a pendulum, has to allow the beating of his heart to calm, but he keeps on until a sign catches his eye.

_New Hope Shelter_ , reads an engraved metal sign. A path leads the way to a wooden house, sheltered and somewhat secluded. A shelter. Where homeless people go.

Where people who have nowhere else to go go.

He’s never ended up here. There were a clump of years - when he was six, again when he was ten - where they lived out of the Impala, and they’ve never had a stable home, not since the fire. Hell, Dean hasn’t even gotten his high school diploma, and he doubts he’s ever going to do anything with his life at this point. But he’s never dipped as low as this.

He’d like to sleep tonight without the danger of being jumped unawares.

Dean knocks on the door.

A man answers, maybe a few years older than him, with dark tufts of hair, haggard eyes, and a 5’o’clock shadow. It’s only then that it occurs to Dean what a mess he must look, face half beat to death, limping and bloody, cheeks still damp. He imagines his mouth is twisted into sourness, sad, jerked into something horrible he can’t undo, like the masks in that one Twilight Zone episode. The man holds eye contact, so Dean averts his gaze and tilts his chin downwards, trying to hide himself.

“Hey,” the guy says, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion, a gentleness there that confuses Dean. “Would you like to come in?”

There’s a hitch of anxiety in his chest, but the man opens the door wide and leads him inside, pausing only to offer him a small smile. “Welcome to _New Hope Shelter_. I’m Castiel.” 


	2. and fill up every hole inside my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, I'm back!
> 
> I know it hasn't been long, but I was too excited to write this to wait. I'm also sorry that this chapter isn't as long as the previous one.
> 
> there aren't many content warnings for this chapter, but as always, take care of yourself first!
> 
> I hope you enjoy! y'all are getting some good angsty fluff here.

There’s two knocks on the door. Castiel barely hears the first, sounds muffled by the tired pounding of his head, already five hours past his preferred bedtime, but after a pause, the second comes hesitant, and that he registers. He drags a hand down his face, rises from the mountain of paperwork and messy, scrawled lists to open the door. He doesn’t bother checking the peephole; the only people who knock at the door this late are people who need a place to sleep.

On the other side of the door stands a man, shoulders hunched into himself and eyes gingerly reaching up to meet Castiel’s, then instantly dropping back down. He holds himself gingerly too, like everything bleeds pain, and when he shifts nervously, half of his face falling into the light, his skin is marred and bursting with fresh bruises. There’s a tight vulnerability that clings to the line of his lips that causes Castiel’s chest to clench in sympathy.

“Hey,” he says. There’s no need to ask what the man is here for. “Would you like to come in?” He’s already pushing the door open wider and leaving open, secure space for him to enter, and he turns to smile an apology for his assumptions, but the man is following him inside. “Welcome to _New Hope Shelter_ ,” he offers instead. “I’m Castiel.”

The man’s mouth parts, exhales, like he was about to say something, but there’s just silence. Castiel glances at his paperwork; it can wait. There’s a reason he opened this place, and it isn’t for the piles of electrical and water and heat bills. He glances over at his new guest, who is taking in the softly lit entrance room - composed only of a few sofas and a front desk, which is really just display of Castiel’s sprawling procrastination - and clears his throat uncomfortably.

“I apologize,” he starts, “But before I set you up with a bed I need to know you won’t be a danger to yourself or anyone else while you stay here.”

Something like a ghost of a smirk crosses Dean’s face, but it’s quickly swallowed by the overwhelming loss that fills his features.

“We could start with a name?” Castiel suggests. He pulls two chairs out from behind his desk and sets them up facing each other, giving them ample room apart.

The man swallows visibly and takes a seat. “Dean,” he says quietly, roughened by the grate of a sore throat - Castiel can see the way he winces. “Dean Winchester.”

“Alright, Dean Winchester. I just want to let you know that this shelter is for homeless youth, ages eighteen to twenty-four, and it's an alternative to the mass-scale adult shelters you more commonly see. A lot of the times those are unsafe, especially for young people, so we created _New Hope_ to provide a place where people can come and feel comfortable. Here our priority is the safety of all residents.” Pausing, he tries to gauge Dean’s reaction, but he’s still staring at the floor. “Dean, do you have any weapons on your person?”

Dean’s jaw twitches and for a moment he looks so deeply _disgusted_ that it shocks Castiel, but then his face falls and he shakes his head.

“Do you have any drugs on you?”

Another quick head shake.

“Okay, good.” His brain returns to static buzzing and Castiel raises his hand to rub the ache away. For the life of him, he can’t remember any other security questions. He’s going to have to take Dean’s word on all of this too; he dimly thinks that there are probably contracts he can make Dean sign, but it’s clear he’s been been through a lot tonight, and Castiel’s simply too exhausted.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” He glances up to see Dean’s brow furrowing in genuine concern. “Oh, yes. Just worked too many hours.”

“You should get some sleep, man.” 

Castiel smiles wanly. “Tell me that after I’ve finished dealing with all of that.” He jerks a thumb back at the paperwork, and Dean’s lips twist upward softly, a smile that isn’t quite humored but close enough, and it causes his hands to tighten into themselves where they’re rested in his lap. “Dean… those injuries need to be tended to. If you’ll let me, I’d like to clean them up.”

Dean shrinks back, clamming up again.

“I don’t want to put you into an uncomfortable situation, but leaving them open will just cause greater risk of infection,” Castiel reminds him.

After a minute, Dean relents and sits up, tense, and nods. Castiel pulls out the first aid kit stored in one of his many desk drawers and opens it, carefully examining the contents before turning back to Dean. “I’m going to move closer just so that I can see what I’m doing, is that okay?"

He gets a nod and sits forward in his seat. Dean obediently tilts his face to the side, revealing a black eye, a gash over the bridge of his nose and one encrusted with dried blood leaning over his jawline, and pebbles encrusted in the skin of his forehead and cheek. Castiel doesn’t want to think about how this man has been pressed into clumps of tiny stone so hard that they’re stuck in him.

Reasoning that the best course of action is to start with the hardest, Castiel pulls out rubbing alcohol, tweezers, and antibiotic ointment. He sterilizes the tweezers and then lofts them in his hand, finding the best hold before he reaches forward.

He hasn’t even touched Dean before the man violently flinches back in anticipation.

“Sorry,” Castiel winces.

“’S fine, man,” Dean says, but they’re so close that Castiel can hear that it’s _not_ ; Dean’s breathing is shallow, pulling ragged at the bottoms of his lungs, and there’s a quiet repetitive scraping noise of Dean running a palm over his thigh, raw skin catching on the rough jean material.

“May I continue?”

“Yeah, yeah,” so Castiel tries again, getting a hold on the first pebble and pulling back. He repeats the process in silence seven more times, until Dean’s left cheek is irritated and swollen but free of intruding matter. He runs a wet cloth over the patch of skin and then dabs on some of the ointment, just to make sure. Dean remains surprisingly stoic during the entire process, and Castiel is sick to his stomach at the thought that he might be so immune to this pain because he’s been through much worse. He tries not to move his hands too quickly, or take them out of Dean’s sight at all, and it feels like he’s tiptoeing around a fearful animal, but he’s also strangely happy when there are no more flinches.

“That’s all for that,” he tells Dean, and the man starts to move, but he amends, “Hold on, I still need to take care of that bruise and those cuts.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Alright then, doc.”

Castiel grins, but it morphs into a frown upon closer inspection of Dean’s face. “We’re going to need some water and soap to clean that out.” He gets up to run the sink, then squirts some hand soap into a cup of water. He dips the rag into the mixture, then pauses. “Dean, I’m going to have to hold your chin steady.”

Dean glances up and meets his eyes, and it strikes Castiel how green they are, every hue of the forest rimmed cooly with moss, sprinkled like upturned leaves and blades of grass, alive in the same way birds are; casually wild. It occurs to him that Dean is so roughened, dark bags under his eyes, dried blood crusting over his split bottom lip, gaze glinting feral with broken fear, and yet his eyes are bright. They’re so bright. He nods shakily.

Castiel reaches out, slowly, and softly cups Dean’s chin. It’s undeniably intimate; the pad of his thumb skims skin as it draws back to hold, fingers a caress on the underside of Dean's jaw. He tilts his hand and Dean’s head tilts too. Raising the rag, he dabs gently at the dried blood, then, when there’s sign of hurt from Dean, he begins to rub in slow circles. Their breathing is shared, mingles in the closeness, and tension has seeped out of Dean’s shoulders, but then his breath hitches, teeth close tight, eyes squeeze shut.

Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on the cut. Pretends he can’t hear the stifled sniffs, can’t see the wetness that isn’t sweat.

He keeps working, methodically gentle, until Dean’s shakes have died down and the dried blood is all washed away. Placing a couple butterfly bandages over his cheek and the bridge of his nose before he steps away, Castiel then turns to pack up the first aid kit.

Silence hangs, unperturbing, between them, until Dean says roughly, “Thanks.” He sounds embarrassed, and Castiel considers telling him there’s no reason to be, but he looks up to smile faintly and tell Dean he was happy to do it.

“Sure. Hey, um, do you - do you have a shower here?”

“Of course. Come with me.” Castiel leads Dean down the hallway. “I apologize for not being able to give you a full tour, but I’m sure you’re tired. Upstairs we have more bedrooms and a recreational room. Our downstairs floor is the living room - um, entrance room you just saw. There’s a kitchen off to the side, but this is the hallway to the downstairs bedrooms. That’s the bathroom, it has a shower inside. You can take this room.” 

Receiving a nod and a peek into his room, Castiel says, “We haven’t had many guests here in the last few months, so we have a lot of empty rooms, but that'll probably change with the holidays.”

Dean turns to him, puzzled, and he explains, “The holidays and family issues are usually correlated.” He sighs and adds a touch bitterly, “People should really stop coming out during Christmas dinner.” That he knows from personal experience.

“Oh.” Dean fidgets with his sleeve. “I’m, um, I’m just - going to-”

“Yes, of course.” Dean is halfway to the bathroom when he declares, “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” 

>

He thinks he wakes up sometime in the middle of the night - early morning? - with his face buried in paperwork, a sheet pasted to his cheek, fingers fumbling with sleep, the light he never turned off bright and disorienting.

At some point, half-asleep, he senses someone else is in the room, and glances over to the sofas. There’s a figure sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up to chest and hands worrying at bare wrists.

“Dean?” slurs out of his mouth before he’s aware of his own voice, dipped low and gravely by sleep.

The figure starts. Dean apologizes, swears, and Castiel really doesn’t understand the mumble of “Sorry - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - I swear to god, I wasn’t trying to - sorry-” 

He wants to tell Dean that there’s no need to panic over this, but the man darts out of the room before Castiel’s mouth can catch up to his thoughts.

He lowers bleary eyes into darkness and sleeps.


	3. and i want everyone to know

Sky tinted winter grey is the first thing he sees. Dean unsticks his lashes and opens his mouth, tongue unblocking from his dry gums. He swallows with difficulty and blinks a few times until the window pane sharpens into view, a misty distortion of endless pewter-hued fog.

The heaviness of the seasons feels sharp where it digs into his lungs.

He lies there, prone, but he doesn’t think he can go back to sleep now. Having no nightmares last night had been rare, and he doesn’t want to risk it. It was choppy sleep, the darkness of unconsciousness sliding into greyscale often enough to dispel any night terrors.

Somedays it’s all about the survival, the sex and drugs and rock’n’roll he’d like to say, though it amounts more to sex and drugs and the job. Where fear ices his veins in white-hot fire are fizzes between his teeth like blood sherbet. Somedays it’s just… whatever. He’s been having a lot of whatever days.

Today is one of them.

He watches the sun rise until the outside is colored egg-yellow. He doesn’t check the time because he can already feel the nudge of anxiety at his heart, knowing that he should be doing something, not sitting around and taking up space, because the day is running out and if it’s nine that means it’s basically noon and noon means half the day is gone already, and then it’s almost three and then five and then nine and twelve hours will have passed without him doing anything at all to stop them, and he can’t deal with the heaviness pinning his chest to the bed starting to hurt like panic does.

Dean shuts his eyes and thinks about his mom, promising him watching angels, thinks about kissing baby Sammy on the head, thinks about Dad hoisting him up and smiling - 

“Dean? Dean, I let you sleep though breakfast, but you should come have lunch… Well, there’s food waiting if you’d like to.” 

Castiel’s voice doesn’t quite register to his brain until a while later, and he almost regrets his paralysis, but then - no, he can’t force his presence onto the man, or anyone else at the shelter. He’d already made a complete fool out of himself yesterday, flinching and then goddamn _crying_. Who the fuck was so touch-starved they cried when a guy tried to fix up their face? What sort of sissy shit was that? And then he had retuned downstairs because he was fucking scared of being alone and watched Castiel sleep like a fucking creep.

Yeah, it was a good thing he had skipped lunch. The guy had been gracious enough to ignore his tears, and too tired to properly call him out on his pervertedness, so it was better that Dean didn’t remind him what a basket case he was.

At some point he has to go to the bathroom, so Dean lurches himself to his feet before he can cause himself more humiliation and wet the bed. The first few steps hurt like a bitch, and Dean tries not to remember why, hopes nothing inside is torn, then reminds himself he’s not going to have sex anymore so it’s not like it even matters. He manages to make it to the bathroom limping only slightly, but the way back is when he runs into trouble.

Namely, a girl.

She has red hair and a Star Wars shirt and her face lights up in a huge smile when she sees him. He double takes and almost sneers out “Do I know you?” but she looks a little bit like she could be his little sister, so he settles on, “Hi?”

“Hi!” she chirps. “I was wondering when I was going to see you! Castiel told us there was a new guy in town. I’m Charlie.” Charlie sticks out her hand and Dean shakes it.

“Dean.”

“Nice to finally meet you!” She glances up, and Dean follows her preoccupied gaze. “I have to finish up chores, sorry.”

“Do you want help?” The words are out before he can stop them, but as he thinks of sleep and the exhaustion resting in his muscles, she turns grateful eyes on him.

“That would be great!”

He swallows and nods jerkily, hopes she can’t tell that there’s more anxiety coagulating in his stomach, burning through the inner linings. Any moment now there could be an acid freefall, and he wants to be alone if he’s going to have a breakdown. God knows he’s had a hard time keeping his upsets from Sammy all these years. Now that he has a room, a place to hide, he should be able to at least not burden anyone. Dean grins, corners of his mouth aching, and says, “Lead the way.”

The chores turn out to be laundry and setting the table. Dean learns that Castiel and the long-staying guests rotate common household activities. “A lot of people stay over for dinner,” Charlie tells him as she sets down a plate. “And to sleep. Usually people are out looking for work during the day, or doing something else. This place is the best shelter I’ve ever seen, so it’s weird that we have empty beds at all. But between you and me, Dean, Castiel’s just shitty at advertising.”

During laundry, Charlie is astounded by his sock-folding rate. “Whoa, how do you do that so fast?”

Laundry is the one thing Dean excels in. Dad’s always mad about that, that he’s not man enough - “I have a little brother.”

He sees her nod out of the corner of his eyes, but she doesn’t go back to the shirt she was working on. “Is… I know this is a personal question, but… where’s your brother now?” 

“Standford.”

“Oh. Wow.” Charlie resumes her folding. Bitter hate sweeps though Dean, shakes his fingers, cause now she nows what a useless piece of crap he is. A little brother who got into fucking Stanford, and here he is, with a busted face and a dead giveaway for a limp in a goddamn homeless shelter. And she might have been his friend too, but now that she’s realized what a worthless idiot he is - “You must be proud of him.”

Mostly angry. He doesn’t know if that means he’s angry at Sam or himself. “Yeah.” Dean rubs his palms over his knees. “I hope he’s doin’ okay.” 

“You guys don’t call each other?”

Tightness fixes itself around his chest and he tries to breathe it out, silent puffs caught inside the tangles. It results in nothing more than a low cough, and he hunches over himself, grabbing the nearest pair of socks to busy himself with something.

Charlie doesn’t say anything else.

“Wait, why aren’t you out looking for work?” he asks suddenly.

She glances over. “Okay, I’m fine with the question, but you might not want to ask everyone here that.” At his blush and mumbled apology, Charlie smiles and assures, “It’s okay. My girlfriend’s sick so I wanted to stay with her.” She squints when he nods at his lap. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“What?”

“Me and Jo.”

“Oh, no, no, I don’t care if you guys are gay. No offense,” he says quickly. It’s the truth, but the topic always makes him uncomfortable. Somehow he’s always been the exception to the rule; everyone should be able to love who they wanna love, but the minute he’s found fucking a guy he deserves to be - 

“Hello, Dean.”

His head jerks up of its own accord, startled, but it’s just Castiel. He’s clad in a dorky tax-accountant trench coat, dark brown mop on his head just as messy as it was yesterday ( _does this guy have permanent sex hair?_ ), his kind eyes a shade of skyline in the daylight. Full on glacier meltwater, soft bluebell striking out to paralyzing iridescent rims. Fuck. Someone should name a crayon after the guy.

“Hey,” he manages. He’s sure humiliation is coloring his cheeks. He cried in front of the magic-eyed angel. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, Charlie, thank you for doing this,” Castiel says, waving a hand at the now-folded pile of laundry. “You didn’t have to.” 

She beams. “No problem, boss! Our expert sock-folder here helped us.” She nudges Dean’s shoulder and he can’t help a small smile. Charlie’s funny and likes Star Wars and how long has it been since he’s met a _nice_ person? Yeah, he likes her. “Is it time for dinner?”

Holy shit, Dean’s hungry. “Dinner? Seriously? Let’s go, c’mon.” 

As he stuffs his face full of the best stew he’s ever eaten, he meets Charlie’s girlfriend Jo. They’re undeniably cute together, however much snot Jo is accidentally swallowing. Dean finds it funny that maybe without Dad, that maybe if Mom had lived, he would have ended up being more like Jo - resilient, with a hoard of bad jokes and joy that doesn’t have to be forced. The second guy he’s introduced to has a thick beard and a drawling southern accent, and Dean would be lying if he didn’t say the guy fucking scared him.

“I’m Benny,” Benny tells him, then adds, “There’s no need for that. Your daddy a marine or something?”

Dean realizes he’s fixed his posture automatically, shoulders set ramrod straight and painfully tight. He loosens them and shrugs in a way he hopes passes off as nonchalant. “Yeah, the marines. Yours?”

Benny gives him a bitter smile. “Me too, brother.”

“Hey, dude, you okay?” a voice peeps up from beside Benny. It takes a moment for Dean’s gaze to settle on the person talking to him, a small guy with mousy brown hair, easygoing eyes tilted into worry. “You look a bit banged up.” 

“Oh yeah, I just got into a fight,” he lies easily. It’s the same one he tells Sam every time. _You should have seen the other guy._

“Garth,” Castiel intones. “You know the rule.”

“Yeah, yeah. No asking new people about what happened before they came. Sorry, man.”

“It’s no problem,” Dean says. His stomach hurts; he’s not hungry anymore. Still, with Castiel on his left, he feels strangely protected, like if someone pries too far, Castiel will stop them with a calm reprimand, and then it’ll all be okay.

“Dean?” He turns and finds himself so close to skyline blue that he blinks on impact. “Are you doing okay?”

He holds the warm, attentive gaze for a minute longer before he looks away and says he’s fine. He’s always fine.

After dinner, after everyone goes to bed, he helps Castiel pick up and clean the dishes. Drawing out this time is the only way he can think of postponing his sleep, postponing staring at the ceiling of an all-alone room. He’s always slept with Sammy, or even in the same room as Dad, or at least thinks he falls to sleep with some girl he picked up in a bar, even if she’s gone in the morning. But now he feels so lonely. He doesn’t want to go to sleep alone.

They work side by side in silence, Castiel washing, Dean drying, and he tries not to let himself think of how domestic it is. How they’re working together like a married couple and he finds it _comforting_.

When it’s all done, Dean’s about to bid Castiel goodnight and resign himself to a tough night when the man stops him.

“Would you like to watch a bee documentary with me?” 

“A…” Dean pauses, eyebrows scrunching in disbelief as he turns. “A bee documentary? You wanna watch a bee documentary with me?”

“Well, yes.” He looks a bit confused now, if awkward, and it’s pretty damn adorable. “They’re very interesting, and good for when you don’t want to sleep.”

Wow, he’s a mind reader too. Not surprising. But Dean can’t say no. “Yeah, why not? Bee movie it is.”

“Bee _documentary_ , Dean. The Bee Movie is wildly inaccurate. A bee’s job is dependent upon their age, they don’t graduate and choose a job for the remainder of their life.” 

Dean laughs, but it just draws a puzzled squint-smile from Castiel.

So that’s how he ends up watching bees pollenate for two hours and thirteen minutes, though he’s pretty sure he falls asleep halfway through. And the whole time, there’s the warmth of the dorky Bee Movie-hating tax accountant on the other side of the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so dean and cas are ~bonding~
> 
> *squees because I'm a fangirl that's way too emotionally attached to the characters*
> 
> as always, I hope y'all enjoyed! comments are incentives :)


	4. that i am half a soul divided

“Cas?”

Castiel freezes, hand on the doorknob, like he’s been caught sneaking from his husband’s room in the middle of the night in pursuit of an affair. “Yes?” he asks tentatively. The use of the nickname warms his insides up unexplainably; nicknames are something that’s only ever been coined to his by his brother, and coming from Dean’s mouth, soft and sleepy, it feels like Dean is calling him friend.

“Just wonderin’ what time…” Dean trails off disorientedly.

“It’s seven-thirty,” Castiel says. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I have a meeting that I need to get to, but by all means keep sleeping."

“You have a meeting this early? Should be illegal." Dean’s risen frame slumps back against the sofa.

“Yes, well, we live in a capitalist society.” Breeding citizens into work hours is an integral part of the corrupt workings of this economy.

“Damn right. Sorry,” he adds sheepishly, and for a bizarre moment Castiel thinks he’s apologizing for swearing, but then he realizes that Dean feels bad for distracting him.

“There’s no need for an apology.” He drinks in the way Dean’s chest rises and falls, a solid beat, and the silhouette of his bed-messy hair in the morning light.

Castiel closes the door behind him, baring his face to the bitter winter chill and trudging forwards.

>

The warmth of the coffee shop douses him in awareness. His cheeks hurt, tinged pink, and his fingers are so bloodless he’s sure he’s catching hypothermia. Castiel unwraps his scarf and gives his head a small shake to dispel the cold that had clutched him like a headache.

Catching his brother waving him over, Castiel makes him way over and takes the pre-ordered coffee gratefully.

“Sup, Cassie,” Gabe grins, and leans back onto two feet of his chair. “How’s it going?” 

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment on the ’S’ that Gabriel drags out in an obnoxious sing-song. “Terrible.”

“Way to be optimistic, bro.” With an audible noise, Gabe sets the second pair of chair legs back onto solid ground. “Alright, what’s going on?” 

Castiel takes off the lid of the to-go cup with a click and sets it upside-down on the tabletop. A steam of caffine-infused warmth swells out in billows of steam. He lowers his face to it and breathes it in. He prefers the smell to actually drinking the coffee, but he needs the energy, especially with prospects so grim, so he blows on the surface to cool it down, watches dark waves ripple.

Finally, he sighs. “The shelter’s going into debt.”

“Damn.”

“I know.” More than Gabe, he knows. He has told his brother why he made it, what it meant to him, but Castiel’s purpose is too close to his heart to suffice with an explanation. This shelter is his entire life’s work. He loves it. He needs it as much as the guests did.

“Well, won’t the state give you funds? What about your benefactors?” 

“That’s the problem, Gabe. They aren’t interested in funding a homeless shelter, especially one as… sunken-in as mine. It’s not going to reap any benefits that they can gain from - am I supposed to find someone un-entitled in the top one percent? And the state won’t begin caring about the poor and needy anytime soon. The only shelters known about and receiving help are the large ones, and the ones that are unsafe for youth.”

“So what now?” 

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I have some time.”

“I have some money—” 

“No, you don’t.”

Gabe looks like he’s going to argue, but shuts his mouth and moves to scrub a hand over his face. Castiel knows that he’s spent everything he has running away. Gabriel’s been to Tuscany and Tokyo and Brazil all to find the place farthest away from their family, from what once was their home. When Castiel was kicked out, only four years after his brother, Gabe moved to New York and bought an apartment from the scraps he had left. They’ve been living off of extra shifts at bars and college tutoring ever since—not that Cas resents his brother’s escapades. Gabe has always been like that—a runner.

He just wishes they didn’t have to make sacrifices to make ends meet.

>

Castiel knocks once on Dean’s door, then waits. According to Charlie, he’s done a few more rounds of laundry today, but other than that and lunch, as far as Cas can tell, Dean’s a reclusive and private person. As much as he respects this, he also knows that it can’t be what Dean’s happiest doing—he certainly doesn’t appear very happy. Not many people in here are to begin with, and Cas struggles with that on a daily.

But Dean. Dean he wants to make so, so happy. He doesn’t know why; because he started crying when Cas treated him with a modicum of kindness? Because his laugh is the most beautiful thing Castiel’s heard in a long time? Because he actually sat through the entire bee documentary and treated Cas’ social ineptitudes like it was fine, normal even? He doesn’t know.

What he does know, what he’s sure of, is that he’s going to try.

On the second knock, there’s a grumbled assent from inside, and Castiel parts the door open a crack, stepping through halfway. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean is sitting on the side of the bed, fingers tugging at the crumpled covers. His back is bowed slightly, clad in a henley and jeans, and he looks tired. Cas knows he slept last night—most likely more than he usually sleeps—but this doesn’t look like the kind of tired sleep can fix. He looks up, manages a small smile. “Heya, Cas.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out.”

His expression changes instantly; loosens in fear, then shutters off with a visible tremble.

“Or not, if you don’t feel comfortable with it, but I know it’s helped a lot of the people who’ve come here in the past. People here don’t have much time to act like young adults, myself included—to have careless fun. Outings are a way to forget the things going on, even if just for a little while.”

“Sorry, Cas. Not taking.”

“Okay.” Castiel pauses before he closes the door again. He doesn’t want to leave Dean shut in here, all alone. “If you need anything let me know.”

“Kay.”

“Dinner will be soon.”

“Kay.”

He closes the door, lets the knob click softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry this is a short one guys! it was really hard for me to write for some reason? so it took a long time to get out. I kind of feel like this story is just getting more and more crappy... what do y'all think?


	5. sometimes we will die and sometimes we will fly away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for flashbacks of rape/graphic violence and suicidal thoughts. please don't read this if it's going to trigger you!
> 
> on another note, thank you so much to everyone that commented! all your love has really lifted my spirits concerning this story. thanks <3

It turns out that Benny isn't all that intimidating when it comes down to it. For one, he doesn't even know how to cook.

“No, no, man, you gotta do it lightly, on low heat, or else they’ll burn,” Dean says, setting down his hamburger meat to reach past Benny’s arm and turn the flames down to a simmer. “Flip ‘em every so often so all the sides get cooked. Yeah, good.” He pulls back and watches as the guy monitors the first batch of burgers.

With the meat cooking, the kitchen smells heavenly. It's been ages since Dean cooked, or, for that matter, ingested anything besides greasy takeout and beer, so during his second dinner at Heading Home, chock full of warm homey food, he had piped up, suddenly and without thinking, “We should make burgers!” And then everyone stared at him because who the fuck was he to demand anything in this place? Dean stuttered something out about it being a bad idea, felt his stomach curl tight against his spine, but then Castiel had said simply, “That would be nice.” And Charlie had cheered and Garth told them a story about how he had once gotten food poisoning from burger diner joint in Mississippi, and it had been okay.

Cooking is something that has always pleased Dean. If Dad were to know that his son likes things so un-manly - but it isn't as if he's his father’s son anymore. Look at what you are look you are not my son - 

“Hey, brother, you okay?”

Dean blinks down at the raw meat clutched in his hand a little too tight. He clears his throat, smiles falsely. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Beside him, the pan sizzles as Benny flips over the patty. “Holidays are rough.”

“It’s not even the holidays yet,” Dean comments, letting a chuckle border his tone. It's only the tenth of December, but he doubts it could be any better if it was the middle of freakin’ August. The holidays have never held any sort of significant value to him; just more disappointments piled onto disappointments - the ones he had given Sammy and the ones Dad had given him. “Don’t tell me everyone in this place has seasonal depression.”

Benny gives a gruff, short laugh. “Family gets together during the holidays.” He gives Dean a look, eyes somber and glinting above his ragged beard and impressive nose. “For a lotta the folks here, family is troubling.”

“Yeah, I can get on board with that.”

“My dad’s a Marines guy through and through,” Benny starts, taking Dean’s next burger and placing it on the pan. Dean hopes to God this isn’t an eye-for-an-eye sort of thing. “The rest of my family’s pretty much in the same boat. All only ever interested in violence, and all a bunch of conservative assholes.”

“My dad,” Dean says, wants to kick himself in the stomach for talking back even though Dad can’t hear this. “He’s pretty much the same. Raised me and my brother to be soldiers.”

“I heard your brother was in Stanford.”

He tenses. Goddamn Charlie. Of course you can’t expect anyone to keep a secret around here.

“Sorry if I wasn’t supposed to know,” is added on apologetically. “She didn’t tell me anything else, if it makes you feel better.”

“Sure, makes me feel better.”

Sarcasm has already brittled his voice, closed it off, and Dean can feel something inside of him retreating, pulling back, back, hunching in the cage of his stomach leaving a trail of molten anger. Yeah, he’s fucking furious, and not even at Charlie. But what the hell is he thinking, trying to open up to people? Badmouthing Dad for raising them wrong when it was the best he could do and Dean knows how hard he tried? Letting Charlie ask about Sam, allowing her to believe they could be friends, the kind of friends that talked to each other - even getting weepy in front of Cas, it's all stupid, stupid, such bad ideas.

He shouldn’t even be here. The thought clogs in his throat like asthma. He shouldn’t even be here. Urgency yanks at his chest in panic, but he doesn’t know where the hell else he's supposed to be, where should he go, please where should I be - 

Get it together, Winchester.

Dean swallows, breathes in deep and hears himself exhale, and resumes his burger-making.

>

By the time he’s sent all of the food out to the dining room, Benny is already seated, and he’s pretty sure everyone else is too, judging by the clatter of voices and silverware.

He steps out of the kitchen and nearly gets run over by two red-nosed strangers. Sidestepping them swiftly, he mutters out an apology and receives a hostile glance in response. Taken aback, Dean moves forward into the big room, and then he sees it: the dining room table, usually with bare patches of open seats, completely filled, and all the new people milling around.

Something settles in his chest, heavy.

Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t gotten out of bed this morning. Or yesterday morning. Or any of the four mornings he’s been here.

Of course, it would have happened eventually. It’s logical - it’s the holidays, after all. Lots of family trouble.

And what’s Dean doing, taking up space?

There isn’t even an open seat at the table - and he expects there to be space waiting for him, held for him like he deserves it? No, he’s burdening these people - he’s burdening Castiel’s goddamn shelter with his sorry ass. People need what he’s taking up, and hell, he isn’t homeless enough or messed up enough or whatever to claim a spot here. It’s a wonder he wasn’t kicked out early, and now Castiel must hate him, hate him as he’s staring down at those goddamn burgers he didn’t even want for dinner - resent him for just being here.

Dean resents himself too. Self-righteous anger pierces him; he thinks he has a right to safety? More than any of these people?

He needs out. Needs out before they see him, know that he’s just standing here and feeling sorry for himself instead of leaving like he should, like they want him to.

But goddammit, he doesn’t want to leave.

“Dean,” a voice rumbles, and there’s Cas, standing up at the table and pulling out his chair. Acting all friendly because that’s the kind of guy he is - sweet. Probably trying to cover up his own displeasure at Dean. “Come sit. The burgers look-” 

Oh God, he’s going to be sick.

Scrambling, Dean turns and practically sprints toward the door, tugging at the knob with shaking hands for a few fumbling seconds longer than needed, then lurches down the front path until he’s finally on the sidewalk and can break into an honest-to-god run. His legs shake with every step; his back hurts, ribs still feel bruised, arms all messed up from being pinned down nights before, but he pushes past the aches.

It feels like he’s lighting on fire, agony pushing out from all sides of his body, singeing the skin that traps him inside himself, pulsating and hot and painful, goddammit.

He wants to escape. Wants to run so far he runs off of Earth, passes the rest of the universe and all its stupid pain, and then falls into nothingness. Feels nothing.

He could. No one would mind it, would they? No one would notice. Sammy’s happy at Stanford - doesn’t want to know Dean, definitely won’t care about him after he finds out what happened. Dad has no use for him anymore. The folks at the shelter, they’ll be better off without him. Everyone will.

It comes with a rushing sensation of cold wind on his face, and his hands forget to catch him, so he lands hard on his shoulder. Dean can’t breathe for a second - he tripped, he tripped, that’s all - and he inhales, realizes that when he coughs, he coughs up small, wet flakes.

It’s snowing.

There’s a crushing sense of loneliness that flattens into his chest, and he feels himself crumble inwards. A great billowing of air rushing out. Dean’s head falls back against the sidewalk, injured side of his face grazing the thin sheet of snow and burning hot.

He’s alone. He’s so alone.

Dean stares at the white-grey expanse of street and wonders where he might get a weapon. He never wanted to do it by knife - too much blood - but he doesn’t have a gun either, and he has no idea where his Dad’s is by now. It had always been something of a safety net - Dad’s old Glock 17, the multitude of prescription pills in his rucksack - but now he has nothing that could remotely make a dent in his status as alive.

What he does have is an on-par mental map of all the bars in this town.

>

Oh, he realizes halfway through his seventh shot. I have a belt.

“Belt would definitely work,” he reliably informs the bartender when he comes around.

“Sure, man.” The bartender pauses and cocks an eyebrow over Dean’s slumped figure. “Rough night?”

“You have no idea.”

Dean lifts his head from his arms and rubs at his temple. His fingers are stiff and clammy, and it sends a shot of panic down his spine - how is he supposed to protect himself if he won’t be able to push them off? - but he dismisses it and asks for whatever has the highest alcohol content.

He’s halfway through the disgustingly bitter drink the bartender gave him when his phone rings. Dean pulls it out and flips it onto the table, has to squint for a bit until he can read the name. Sam. Scoffing, he waits for it to ring out before pressing the button to hear it.

“Hey Dean… um, it’s been a while. I-I’m still pissed - at you and Dad. Mostly Dad. And I feel bad not calling ‘cause, well, you side with Dad but it isn’t really your fault. So, um. You called me a few times the other night, and I just wanted to check in that everything’s okay. Um. Bye. Call me.”

Dean presses his head to the ragged wood tabletop and laughs so hard his stomach hurts.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

And then he’s on his knees, staring at the inside of a ceramic basin, and there’s still sick in his mouth, so he spits out and wipes his face on his sleeve. He’s pretty sure he might be crying, through he doesn’t know why.

Dean starts to undo his belt because he watched on Doctor Sexy M.D. that a guy hung himself from a sink, and there are plenty of sinks in bar bathrooms, but then the door of the stall he’s in swings open and he blanks.

There’s a man standing over him, and he’s got a scraggly grey beard that Dean knows drags across skin like wire, taunt high cheekbones, and lips that jerk.

“Hey, Dean-o.”

In the moment that he blinks, Cheekbones is a breath away from him, so close he can smell the man, smell his rotting gums like fish leftovers, and there’s a croon in his ear. “Still scared of me, aren’t you?”

“Get away,” Dean snarls.

“Nu-uh,” sings the leering voice, and there are hands around his throat, pressing in, making it so hard to breathe, his fingers his fingers - 

Dean kicks out, thrashes, screams “don’t touch me, don’t touch me” so loud his voice grates against the pulled muscles in his throat. But he can’t stop him, and hands latch around his wrists, knot them together and then pressure is at the back of his neck, pressing into the unhealed mark.

The mark. The bite this man left in his skin, the claim, the you don’t belong to yourself anymore. And he never has, Dean realizes when his breath comes to a stuttering stop. He’s been Dad’s, he’s been Cheekbones’, he’s always been someone else’s, always obedient, hunching his shoulders to make himself smaller, snapping to attention, always, always this thing to be used and then left.

When has he ever had control over anything that happens to him?

Doesn’t even say no anymore - a fag - don’t you come crawling back - that’s a fucking order - ask for it - ask for it - ask for it - 

When Dean finally opens his eyes, he’s disoriented. There’s no one pinning him to the bathroom floor anymore, no one touching him, but then he looks up and does see a figure in the doorway. Before fear can set in once again, the figure introduces himself and sharpens into focus.

“Hello, Dean. It’s Castiel.”

“Ah,” he says, and his cheeks heat. Dean still feels shaky, unsteady in his reality, and it makes him deeply embarrassed to realize that’s all because of a stupid hallucination. Was he this wimpy before and he just didn’t notice it?

And he just fell apart in front of goddamn Castiel. Again.

Christ.

Cas takes a step forward, into the cubicle, and crouches down. Up close, Dean can read his face, but he doesn’t look mad. Or judgmental. He can’t tell what the guy’s thinking, and that just scares him more.

“We’re gonna go home, alright? To the shelter.”

Dean shakes his head.

Cas’ eyebrows furrow, head tilts in the I-don’t-understand expression. His eyes look like they scooped up the whole ocean inside of them - like Dean said, crayon color. “Why not?”

“I-I’m a…” His gaze scatters around, tries to look anywhere but those blue eyes. “Burden. On you guys. I just - I shouldn’t…”

“You think you’re a burden?”

“Well, yeah,” he says. “I’m taking up space that people actually need-”

“But you need it, don’t you? Dean, are you homeless?”

“Yeah but it’s my fault-”

“No, that doesn’t matter. You need a place to sleep, you need food, the resources my shelter can give - therefore, you’re perfectly entitled to stay there for as long as you need. You’re not taking up space. It’s not about whether you deserve to stay there or not. And for the record, Dean, you’re not a burden.”

Dean peeks up at Cas, and he’s smiling softly, corners of his mouth tilted up, eyes squinting gently.

“We’re going home.”

Cas offers a hand, but Dean’s stupid brain thinks its coming towards him, and he flinches back before he can stop himself. New humiliation pooling in his stomach, he pushes himself up without the aid. He tries to walk but practically crashes into Cas when he does get on his feet, hands out to catch himself landing against Cas’ chest, but Cas takes it in stride and wraps an arm around him.

They walk back, and with Cas’ hold on him steady and warm, Dean doesn’t have to think about nails trailing down the column of his throat or Dad’s Glock 17.


End file.
